Harry Potter and the Gods of Incendio
by Elphaba01
Summary: Nobody wanted to die – they were just kids, sucked into a world that was destined to fail by mist. Life seemed just that more precious when faced with death, after all, and regrets were that more painful when realised it could never have the chance be fixed. But things were changing. They all could feel it. :: Sequel! HP/PJO/HG crossover. All rights to Rick, J.K and Suzanne.
1. Prologue

**This is a sequel of _Percy Jackson and the Spell of the Hunger Games_****- it needs a lot of fixing up to do since there are many author errors and such. The writing gets better through out it, trust me - so read that first before coming here.**

**To those of you who has read that already - HOLLA! Long time no see, right?! So sorry this took so long, plotting was so hard but I've got the general jist of it. This story is going to be so much more intense, and hopefully, much better.**

**This is all progressed up to Catching Fire.**

**There _are _a few things that have changed in the last story (annoying author errors, nuh) and I will notify you of those, but the main one? - no prostitute Annabeth, or prostitution threats from Mr Snowflakes.**

**I'm sorry for going down _that _road, guys. It just doesn't feel right to take Annabeth down there, you know?**

**But yeah. Hopefully you'll enjoy this journey just as much as you did the last one? I dunno, I hope I will :3**

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter, Hunger Games or Percy Jackson.**_

* * *

**HARRY POTTER AND THE GOD OF INCENDIO**

"_There two primary choices in life: to accept conditions as they exist, or accept the responsibility for changing them." – Denis Waitley_

* * *

Prologue

Despite being alive for over two hundred years, he always felt somewhat dead.

He was staring into the depths of the Styx, and normally he never even _glanced_ at the Styx. He hated it. It made him smoke more packets than any mortal possibly could finish with a beating heart – perhaps _that_ was one of the few perks of being immortal. Invulnerability.

But when he looked into the currents of lost hopes and dreams and unfulfilled happiness, he was a coward. Fear encased his icy cavernous heart, his hands shook with rage, his legs felt like lead... he felt so utterly vulnerable it made him feel sick.

This was when he guessed this was the deadliest part of the Underworld.

At least he saw somesmiling ghosts.

Not that he smiled back, however. The screams and bawls of 90% of the death community were hardly casual background music for a casual encounter with happy, awe-inspiring Elysium-blessed individuals. Also, offering laid-back (comedic, even) conversation like how the weather faired didn't really mix well with the newly-departed, either – and he had _tried. _

Alas, it was no secret that the Death God's kids were almost scarily antisocial _alive_, nevermind in an awkward position when he was neither alive nor dead.

But yes, it was a cruel river. He saw baby toys – ah, now he knew the rocking horse was the famous Louisiana Johns from Indiana, a little girl at the age of six. She wanted a pony but she got ran over by an unseen car before she had the chance to ask her mom – and ripped up diplomas of stupid, regretting miserable drop-outs and broken, misshapen pendulum clocks... so many things, so many dreams... just broken. Just like that.

And rings. Golden, cheap, humorous Haribo rings, beautiful ones embellished with gems, engagement ones or marriage ones – he had no clue whom they were for, and why, but there were waves of them, everywhere he looked.

He scratched his overgrown stubble with his bony fingers, exhaling an acknowledging, frustrated sigh when he saw it, in the corner of his eye.

He _so _needed more of those cigarettes.

Technically, it shouldn't even be there. He wasn't even human anymore. But his father, as great as he was, still deemed it best for the river to have it there, every time he was near, at every opportunity it seized. Yet, when it breezed towards him, he swooped in and took it, despite the many desperate and smart parts of his mind screaming at him to just _fucking forget it._

Nico di Angelo was staring at the framed photo of the now dead demigods at Camp Half-Blood.

* * *

"_Frank!_" called Hazel from behind him, her voice crystal clear despite the deafening crashing of the boulders falling around him. Frank turned, widening his eyes at the sight of her – bruised, bloody, and flailing her arms out towards him, mouth widened into a scream. He didn't know how he did it, but he thanked the mighty Mars above for his reflexes, his arms hooking her back towards him as the rubbles of the narrow pathway crumbled downwards into the endless black void beneath.

Frank gave her a quick, small, relieving smile. "C'mon, we gotta be careful through this," he panted. He looked towards the other four, tumbling through the dark mess. Ahead was the silhouette of an archway with wide doors thrown open, with a loose tattered curtain blowing gently in between, as if the wind was calm, whilst in fact it was the direct opposite. "Nearly there now. Okay?"

"Okay." Gods, she looked pretty even in this mess, even when she was close to tears. "I thought I was supposed to be the daughter of death, anyway," grumbled Hazel, shaking away the dust in her crazy curls with a wild shake of her head.

The other four figures stopped ahead, and Frank heard Leo's strangled yell among the howls of the wind and the shrieks of the monsters behind. Grabbing Hazel by the hand, he pulled her along, their feet scratching against the uneven narrow pathway, careful not to trip over and into darkness, and he thought – jeez, for a son of Mars, he was pretty stupid.

They were so close. So close to closing those damn doors, yet he still didn't know what the heck he was doing, or why, or how he even got this far. The prophecy was too loose and vague for it to even be granted a quest in the first place, and for Jason to say _yes _to it was a miracle and uncharacteristic thing in itself. Sometimes people had this far away look in their eyes and did rash things for no reason yet still had this momentous success, so Frank guessed that Jason's once in a lifetime rash opportunity came when he accepted Octavian's stupid proposal to go on a dangerous escapade to close the Door of Death.

Hera was the one who brought Piper and Leo along, and they found Nico in the House of Hades being dragged off by Gaia's forces. Together, as a united six, they were stronger than ever – but that didn't really mean anything, since they were pathetically weak by no fault of their own, with wounds making their appearances every _ten freaking seconds _and the Argo malfunctioning tragically once or twice.

Still, Frank was determined to get his friends to live another day.

His tight grip on Hazel's wrist gradually slipped away as soon as the group suddenly halted, the Doors looming over them hauntingly in a taunt-like fashion. Frank swallowed when he looked into the opening, hearing Hazel gasp behind him. "Oh _no_," she murmured.

If Frank thought there were far many dead ghouls that escaped already, he was wrong – crowds upon crowds of monsters and zombie-like humans alike ran up the hill and towards the peaked Door in roars of battle cries, with clubs, swords, axes and raw superhuman strength armed, ready for whatever went in their way.

"Holy Hephaestus," Leo muttered, the flames on his hands abruptly extinguishing. Piper breathed in a deep breath, her chocolate brown braids flowing behind her, making her look like some courageous action hero. Nico clenched his pale fists, his dark eyes almost black with rage. Jason just clenched his jaw.

"Let's go," Jason ordered in that casual demeanour, which seemed odd given the present circumstance. He took a step forward, before he was stopped by the sharp yell of the son of Hades.

"Are you _crazy_?!" cried Nico in an unusual hectic manner, dragging Jason back by the shoulders with knitted eyebrows. He looked at all of them with a deceived expression on his face, jaw slacking with shock. "You go in, you're dead. This is the Doors of _Death_."

"No Styx," Leo said, in awe of the arch – all of them were, ogled at this symbolic, stupid door. It was nearly crumbling. "Get to the point."

"That's it. See that curtain? – it used to be some sort of boundary, for both the living and the dead. It used to be working fully, you know, not, uh –"

"Like a cat ripped the ends out?" Frank offered.

"Yeah. It had the function of the doors, basically." Nico got out his Stygian iron out of its sheath, twirling it in his hands restlessly. "But a couple of years ago this magical whiz ruined it – that's why Thanatos and Hades built the Doors. The only thing this curtain does is drag people from the _outside _into the _in_." Nico paused, glancing down at the hill where the monsters were progressing with quick speed. "It used to be called the Veil."

There was a puzzled silence, all of them clueless of what to do. The entire situation seemed hopeless, and Frank knew what all of them were thinking – someone had to die to close those Doors. But nobody wanted to die – they were just kids, sucked into this prophecy that was destined to fail. Life seemed just that more precious when faced with death, after all, and regrets were that more painful when Frank realised it couldn't be fixed.

It was then when Frank knew what he had to do.

If he was going to burn, it might as well be bright.

"Hazel, give me my firewood."

She looked at him, her eyebrows crossed. "Why?"

_Oh, Hazel._

"Just..." he sighed. He didn't trust himself to talk too much, his throat feeling unreasonably heavy, so he pleaded with his pools of inky black. _You're a son of a martyr and freaking Mars. You can do this_. "Please."

* * *

_**And now you know.**_


	2. Chapter One

Chapter One

**ANNABETH**

"I'll have eight plums, please," she said with what she hoped as a kind smile, pointing at the ripe fruit coloured like the sunset. Her blonde hair was thrown into bun, and her blue dress, a rich colour compared to everyone else's faded yellow and greens, complimented her calculating eyes.

The man behind the counter's wrinkles were prominent as he smiled sympathetically back at her. "That'd be three coins, miss," he said, and she handed him the money and he dropped her plums in the basket she held in her hand. Giving a nod of thanks, she made her way through the maze that was District 4's marketplace, smoothly avoiding any harsh collisions and shoulders tense at the proximity of everyone else's.

Though, 4 really was a lovely place just in appearance, somewhere you'd love to go on a cheap family holiday. Pastel coloured terrace houses surrounded the market in a box, the only exit being an archway beneath a half of a house, and it seemed that only Annabeth noticed a portcullis – a medieval defensive system that was basically a fence brought down to keep people out (or in?) – hanging above either entranceway. The floor was stone – at least, she thought so, since all of it was mainly covered in fish, clams, prawns, and other food necessities.

It just looked so _rich_. If someone took a picture of it, you would think it was a gorgeous place. But it was harsh and the atmosphere held an ever-present pressure and underlying fear. Rich people lived in those terrace houses, and there were so _few_ of them.

Once she went through the archway, she saw the turquoise sea, the golden twinkles of the sun, the blues, reds and greens of the sails on the shoreline. All she could explain how District 4 was were colours, and all she thought about now was colours.

The most popular colour she thought of was green.

And blood.

Instead of taking the shorter route – over the river, through the woods (well, the part that wasn't out of bounds, anyway) – she took the annual longer way, along the seafront. Children ran across the pathway with giggles and screams of joy, some gossiping girls pointed at her and murmured. All Annabeth felt comfortable in doing was to stay silent, and look at the floor.

When the sand was in view, she smiled – the sea wind was especially wild today, some tendrils of sunny curls falling out of her bun, but she didn't particularly care. She had her plums, she had her colours.

She had her sea, she had her Percy.

She closed her eyes, taking off her sandals and embracing the feeling of sand rubbing in between her toes. The precious smell of sea air, the soft hushes of the waves gliding across the golden beach. She dropped an arm to her side and placed the basket of plums down, giving a small, poignant smile.

She felt a warm hand intertwine with hers, and a whisper of her name, but when she opened her eyes he was gone again.

Annabeth came here every day for two months. Bought her plums, stood on the beach. And _never_ would he emerge from behind, or be real, or do anything more than hold her hand.

Percy was still the single most annoying person she had ever met, even when he was gone.

"Hey."

She turned to see Finnick, giving her an empathetic smile as he picked up the basket of plums and herbs and her leather sandals. He gestured awkwardly at her tear-stained cheeks, and she hurriedly wiped them away with her cheeks. "Hey," she greeted softly, facing back to the sea when he was by her side.

They didn't say anything for awhile, both plagued with thoughts of Percy. She wondered how it must've felt for Finnick, who had lost so many boys before hers, and her fear of having to experience more death felt numb. Nothing could be worse. _Nothing_.

"More plums, huh?" Finnick said, his thick copper hair thrashing wildly in the wind. "Before you know it, you'll turn into one. How many this time – eight?"

"I thought Annie and Mags might have some," she defended half-heartedly, her voice raw from her tears. "And you, too, if you get that stick out of your ass."

He snorted. "Oh, Annabeth, your wit astounds me."

"Your arrogance astounds _me_."

"Well, I'm glad I've penetrated through your forces with my cockiness."

"Just shut up, Odair," she sighed, breathing out a weak laugh as she snatched the basket and sandals from his loose hold and started walking down the shoreline. Thankfully, he interpreted this as a dismissal, and he shortly left Annabeth to talk to Percy by herself.

She was probably going nuts, and she knew it.

But Annabeth Chase had always been crazy for Percy, so she didn't care.

* * *

The houses in the Victor's Village were big, and looked out of place in the seaside-themed place like this – they were tall, with wide manor windows that faced the sea and plain white concrete walls. Golden numbers crafted gracefully on the severe navy blue doors. Each house were identical, and there were countless numbers of them – so much so that there were two streets of them, four houses on either sides. Sixteen houses, six being used.

She lived on the last house on the 1st street, but it was on the right hand side so she didn't have a view of the sea. Thank the gods she didn't – she wouldn't look at anything else if she did, she'd be in a trance. Next door was Annie Cresta's, but she hardly stayed there, instead living with Finnick next door to hers. Lastly, there was Mags, right near the entrance of the street, so Annabeth always visited there first.

She didn't bother to knock, since the woman wouldn't have heard anyways. "Mags? It's me," she said, smiling at the quiet "ooh!" and slow thumps of feet from upstairs. Patiently – wow, Annabeth Chase being _patient_? – she waited, setting the basket on the kitchen counter and sitting down on a stool that was around a small rounded kitchen table.

Mags emerged from the stairway, lifting her head up to beam toothlessly at her before resuming her focus on walking down the stairs. She wore fluffy slippers and a comfortable robe, and a grin so genuine Annabeth couldn't help but smile.

The old woman saw all, knew all, still managing to scrape by. She had matted grey hair, was small and had hooked fingers that made her hands look more like claws than anything else. Annabeth always had respect for her, but didn't know why until she came to District 4; it was because despite the many years of torture, despite the many deaths and destroyed hopes and renewed fears and the goddamn seizures... Mags always somehow _coped_. She still somehow had happiness.

Mags outstretched her arms, stooping slightly to give a seated Annabeth a warm embrace. "Hey," Annabeth murmured, wrapping her own slender arms around her. Mags was the only one Annabeth was okay touching – she reminded her of her Grandma Tessie – her dad's side, obviously. "I got some plums for you. I thought you'd like some, since you wanted one when you were at mine last night." She let go of the hug, looking at Mags's expression which was exaggeratingly surprised and laughing. "Oh yeah, I noticed! Get two."

Mags did as she was instructed, plucking the two most unripe plums and placing them in a bowl. She smiled thankfully at the blonde, moving back to sit down next to her and holding her hand gratefully. Maybe that was why Annabeth liked her so much – she didn't talk much.

* * *

It was evening by the time Annabeth left Mags to Finnick's. The lights were thankfully on – she would stray far, _far _away if they weren't – so Annabeth knocked loudly.

"I'm not opening the door for you, Chase, if that's what you were implying," Finnick's booming voice shouted from inside. She heard Annie chide him quietly, for once thankful for District 4's mad girl, and the millions of locks being slowly opened.

Annabeth growled a sigh in frustration. Already she was beginning to regret her choice – she bought them plums, and this is what she got – but before she could flee away, the door flew open.

At first she was blinded by the brightness, but when she adjusted, it was only Finnick, crossing his eyebrows, concerned. Yeah, he was handsome, with perfectly toned muscles, dazzling sea-green eyes and a perfect white smile (she wanted to make fun of his swollen lips – she really must've interrupted something) – but... he wasn't, well, _him._

But really, she wouldn't call Annie crazy if she didn't fall for Finnick.

Well, she supposed Finnick had a side to him nobody else knew. He would do anything for those he loved, and courage even she had to respect. He was a good man. Of course, she wouldn't dare tell him – her pride didn't allow that.

"Is now not a good time for you?" Annabeth asked sarcastically, lifting the basket. "I got some herbs Annie wanted. And plums."

He raised an eyebrow, saying nothing but stepping aside to unblock the entrance.

The place was just like Mags and hers – open kitchen as soon as you step in, a huge living room with a beautiful sparkling diamond chandelier and a surprisingly cheap TV that looked like it was made in the 90s (yes, the boxy kind) and a stairway that cut through the wall that lead to the rooms upstairs. There were many things that could be improved, and Annabeth even dared to doodle some plans up when she was trying to busy herself.

Besides, wasn't the Capitol supposed to be clever, anyway?

On the cheap leather couch laid Annie, whose brown locks was unusually messy and pale cheeks flushed. Her beaming smile radiated happiness until she saw Annabeth, and immediately it dropped. Last time they had encountered it hadn't ended well; Annabeth started growing frustrated at her instability, Annie was getting so annoyed that she couldn't string up her words to form a sentence, Annabeth shouted, Annie was close to tears. She knew it wasn't her fault Annie was this way, but still, Annabeth Chase saved her patience for those who had patience with _her_.

Annie stood up, fingering the ends of Finnick's shirt she was wearing nervously. "Hello."

"Hey," Annabeth replied, guilt flooding uncertainly into her stomach she decided to ignore. "I brought you those herbs." She gestured at the basket in hooked on her arm, and she hoped Annie got the signal she refused to let herself acknowledge – that she was sorry, and here's the apology.

Finnick looked at Annabeth judgingly, probably contemplating whether to kick her out of the house.

It took a few minutes for Annie to reply, but when she did it was small. "Thank you, Annabeth," she said genuinely, walking towards her and examining them. "Did you talk to Percy today?"

Her first impulse reaction was to snap and lie, to say _no, I was taking a walk along the beach! _Her second impulse was to burst and tell them everything she pent up since the Games.

But all she did was knit her eyebrows at her, trying to hide the pain in her eyes that clearly shown as she gave her the full basket of plums and herbs.

She was out the door and crying before they could say anything else.


End file.
